He will be King of New Orleans
by Sir Marrok's Wife
Summary: rated T for dark themes; brief origins of a boyhood Facilier. The start of his long partnership with his Shadow. Oneshot


**"The King of New Orleans"**

**Disclaimer, yadda, yadda, yadda... Reviews please? Anybody? No-? Al'ight then.**

**Chapter One, otherwise to be my _Prolouge_**

* * *

"Boy," his father hisses, alcohol sour breath hot against the child's gaunt cheeks. "What'd I say'ta you? _Kill it! _Dammit boy! Do it now!"

The child's downcast eyes mist with tears. A fat crocodile sized droplet streams a trail over the curve of his nose. "Please Daddy," he whimpers; voice trembling with barely contained sobs. "I- I don't want to hurt 'em." He clutches an obsidian dagger against his chest, its jagged edges pressing painfully against the palms of his hands. The fear of it burns him, yet he dare not let go. "Please…" he cries softly, silently praying to God that his father will soften, that he won't make him go through with it.

But he doesn't soften. The drunken haze in his eyes clears into a harsh, furious glare and without so much as a blink he backhands the child across the ear with a head-splitting crack. The boy howls as he is sent sprawling across the floor, the obsidian dagger knocked from his hands. A blue welt quickly swells into a round bruise along the surface of his cheek. His mouth explodes with the coppery taste of blood. His spit is red. He weeps. His hands cradle the wound on his face. His tears stain little wet marks on the floorboards.

"Listen to me careful _boy,_" the Father warns, pressing his own sneering face close before the child's. "Either you kill it, and offer up its blood, or I beat you and give 'em _yours_."

The boy has never felt so small, or so hurt, or so scared. He cries a few moments longer until his father loses patience, forcing his decision with a sharp kick in the boy's side. With a groan the child picks himself up on shaking legs, his hands finding the obsidian dagger pressed against his palms once more. His father forces the dagger into his unwilling grip, until finally the boys relents and takes a hold of its sharp hilt. The darkness of the blade seems to melt the candle light, making it seem otherworldly, like something forged within the black volcanoes of hell. It radiates an evil power, the boy knows. His limbs tremble harder.

"Kill it boy! Kill the frog! It's either you or him! So pick one!" His father roars at him, thrusting the small creature out before him. It is a small thing, fragile, with shiny green skin and a chest heaving up and down in fear. So small, so innocent- is it worth the boy's pain, he wonders?

No! A voice cries inside of him, the frog doesn't deserve this. This blood sacrifice- not the frog! Yet, if not the frog, then _he _would be cut. Hs father would take the knife to him, he knew. His crimson life would be fed to those… shadows. And so with a choke he steps towards his father who holds the hyperventilating creature between his hands. His father nods, noosing his fingers around the poor frogs neck and taking it by the legs with the others hand, so that it's small body is stretched taunt before him.

"Do it boy." It's a command and an unspoken promise, _kill the frog, or I hurt you._

The boy wipes his snot away with the back of his hand, his obsidian dagger edging ever closer toward the frogs round belly. "I'm sorry," he whispers, meeting its large frightened yellow eyes with his own purple ones. Purple, he heard his Father say long ago, was a sign of great Voodoo. He wishes his eyes weren't the color of Voodoo. He wishes they were brown like everyone else and that his father didn't insist on teaching him these things. He wishes his father weren't his father, and that he didn't have to kill an innocent frog, but some wishes don't come true.

And so, having given his apology, he drags the stone blade across the frog's lime green belly, spilling out blood and maroon organs into the fathers cupped hands. The creature spasms, the shudders, and then grows still. The boy knows that it's dead. He hangs his head in shame.

"Alright boy. Now comes the dangerous part, we got's to feed 'em. Makes sure 'dey eats the frog an' not us." He places and sticky hand against the back of the child's head, shoving him toward the pyre. They sink to their knees, heads low in a bow before the twisted smiles of the Masked idols and their snarling faces. The boy shudders as he feels their eyes _watching _him. They aren't just carved wood, he knows. They're _alive._ Feeling their presence makes his skin crawl and his gut twist. He squeezed his eyes shut and tires to keep his breathing even.

"Hello my _friends," _his father addresses them. "Got somethin' special for ya'll taday." The boy squeezes his eyes even tighter; he can feel a frosty chill settle in the room. The faces murmur in a language he cannot understand, but their whispers tickle his ear. He can feel their shadows crawling against his skin, and he shudders. He registers vaguely that he's peed himself in fear.

His father speaks to them a while longer, but the boys can hardly conceive the conversation. He is distracted by the constant barrage of gropes and pinches the shadows are giving him. He gasps as a phantom claw is scraped across the soft underside of his chin, drawing blood, and then licked clean by the feather-light kiss of writhing tendrils.

"Boy!" His father growls at his ear. "You can't show 'em fear or they'll eat you up. Open your eyes son! Face them!"

The boy is petrified, but a part of him is more scared of his father then these unknown… things. His whole body trembles, yet he cracks open one purple eye after the other-

-And stares strait into the wavering form of his own shadow. How-? The shadow looks exactly like him. The same outlined tuft of unruly hair, the same skinny limbs and boney face. His purple eyes dart about and he sees the others. More shadows, some that look like men, others beast, or goats, or bits of each. And there kneels his father, grimacing as the blood on his hands is licked clean in turn by the tornado of claws and snaking hair and teeth.

Strangely, his fear evaporates into red hot rage. He notices his terrifying father, how small he looks compared to the shadow beings. His father looks frightened, the boy swears he does. The bastard! The hypocrite! The boy's blood is lit aflame what with the hate coursing through his veins. The boy wishes the man were dead. He hates him for the hurt, and for the things he's made him do. He hates him for the frog's sake. He wishes he were dead, but wishes don't come true.

They don't come true… unless..

He stares back into the beckoning form of his own shadow. Its writhing darkness cocks its head at him, reading the boys thoughts and mirroring his desires. Its adjacent fingers caress the jagged edge of the obsidian dagger still firmly clutched in the boy's hand. And suddenly, he no longer trembles. His purple eyes see red. He knows what he can do, and the shadow nods its approval. He clumsily staggers to his feet. Around him the shadows seem to poise in anticipation. They see the dark intent of his heart and the rage broiling within him so passionate he forgets his fear of the man. It is the turning moment when the hourglass is set upside down. The eerie wraiths seem to encourage the boy, and they boy seems to understand them. He no longer recoils from their gnashing teeth, rather they give him strength in the moment to carry out his own salvation. The depths of their hollow eyes flick from the black knife, to the father, and they grin.

The boy limps in small, creeping steps behind the man who sired him. The man who abused him, the man whom he is certain would one day kill him. His words echo through the boys mind, '_It's either you or him."_ Well, the boy decides, I pick _you _then. And he swipes the dagger's carved stone blade across his father's oblivious throat. The movement in steady and swift, much more confident then the earlier murder of the frog. The man barley lets out a gurgle before the shadows cheer in a howling sympohony of triumph and descend upon his hot-spilled blood.

As for the boy, his lips curve into a smile. It is the time he's smiled in his entire life.

* * *

A small number of years later and he has taken on a new name: Facilier. He has had abandoned all traces of his father, including the old man's name.

Behind him trails his 'shadow', that otherworldly being he stared into the black pits of on that faithful day when he took that frog's life, and then the life of his father. He has worked hard since then to get to the place he's at now. Back in New Orleans. The road has been long and difficult, but his shadow has helped him along the way. They want the same things, you see. Facilier is not naïve enough to call the entity a friend, however he is honest enough to recognize the companionship they share.

Someday soon he'll open up his very own Voodoo Emporium. He'll begin his dark work within the very heart of his mother city and with time become its King. He will be great, he will be everything his own father never was, he will-

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

A child's scream shatters the pace of his thoughts. He frowns, searching the dark sleeping homes to his left and to his right for the source of the interruption. He despises the 'neighborhood' he finds himself in. He despises it because it's exactly the place he would have dreamed of living in, back when he was a child living under the tyranny of his abusive father. The houses are small, but quaint. They have an aura about them of love and fellowship, of warmth and comfort, and so even though the houses themselves can hardly be called hovels, there is something rich about them that attracts Facilier. His heart pangs at the sweet smelling gardens, at the gentle creak of rocking chairs on smoothed porches.

A small part of him lets out a wishful sigh before he mentally berates himself. Is he not more than this, he reminds that weak place in his heart. Why should these little homes, full of little, pathetic people make his heart ache as they do? He doesn't realize that he's stomping towards the house from whence the child screamed until he's at the open window, staring into the tiny room within. His shadow is confused, and tugs on the lapels of his coat but he swats away its incorporeal hands. He HAS to see the going ons inside this pathetic 'home'. He has to see the family insides, he has to satiate himself with the knowledge that even within a home place and quaint and charming as this a child could have reason to cry. And so he peers through the open window, hoping to see cruel treatments from siblings, or harsh punishing parents, perhaps even a junkyard hazard of a bedroom with broken beer bottles which a child might cut themselves on. Something terrible must have inflicted the haunting squeal in the night. Some mis-doings must be possible, even in a home as perfect as this.

He presses his face trough the open window, squinting in the darkness until a light across the hallway flickers to life. Then he shrinks away, both shadow and man shying away from the brightness of the halo warmth. He hears muffled noises inside. A child, a little girl, whimpers within the dwelling. He makes out the low rumble of a man, and the sweet, melodic lullaby of a mother's kind comfort as she hushes the child. He dare not peek with the light inside blazing so bright, yet he cannot resist. His shadow, sensing his intent, flees from him. Facilier knows he should flee as well, yet his stick legs are leaden. He cannot leave… yet. First, another peek inside. He opens his eyes to the scene inside the home, wincing silently at the light burning his violet voodoo eye. And then he sees them.

Perfection.

What a small, insignificant family! What a sniveling, whinny, beautiful child! What a kind looking mother! What sturdy father! Facilier feels his heart break as he spies on them, drinking in the sight of their easy circle of love and consideration. The little girl cries quietly agasint her father's broad shoulder and he, to his credit, never raises his voice to her, or curses her weakness. He simply pats her head and holds her close to him. Facilier feels the weight of a stone drop within his belly.

"-Daddy a frog!" she whimpers softly into his shirt.

The Mother tsks, the father smiles, but he never mocks her. He never slaps her and tells her to be brave. He simply kisses the top of her forehead and coos sweet promises of sunshine into her ear. And Facilier gags, being sicken by what he sees, and that it was denied him. He suddenly despises the little family in their little, loving dwelling. How dare this child feel the tender protection of a father, while he was given fear and resentment? His anger washes over him in rising tides, and his hands fist in the curtains.

Then, the father rises, carrying the child back into her bedroom, closer to Facilier's hiding place. He is forced to tear his eyes away from the scene, he is made to flatten his thin body against the dusty ground outside the girl's window and slink away into the night. As he creeps father from the mocking open window, he hears their voices drift once again into the crisp night air.

"Frog's all gone now baby girl."

"Good night Tiana, sweet dreams."

"G'night Momma, g'night Daddy. I love you."

"Love you to child, with all my heart."

Facilier pauses when he hears this, but then his shadow surges around his feet just as a cat would rub its master's legs and he embraces its welcome darkness. Here is his home, he tells himself with a frown. Force away the ice in your chest. He was meant for somethin' greater then these little homes anyway. He turns his back to the house and the little family inside once and for all, and disappears into the black.


End file.
